


The Downfall of House Washington

by StellaC



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AU- Game of Thrones, Bottom!Haytham, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaC/pseuds/StellaC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayed by Reginald Birch, House Kenway lost the Iron Throne to George Washington and his rebels. Prince Haytham was forced to escape King's Landing and towards Essos. Ten years later, with vengeance on his mind and a powerful army of Dothraki, Haytham Kenway comes back to take what belongs to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Writer's block is a bitch...And I only write this for shits and giggles...So no need to take it too seriously, because clearly I don't.
> 
> I have never actually read the books, and I have only seen a few episodes of GoT. So maybe I'll get some details wrong. Please point them out to me if there is any.  
> Oh, and Thomas' accent probably isn't right either, since English is not my first or second language.
> 
> In this story, Haytham was about 20 when he left Westeros, and was about the same age at the start of AC3 in later chapters. Connor was about 20 when he first appeared. They are not related.
> 
> This fic may contain spoilers for GoT Season 1, and some for AC: Forsaken.

“Prince Haytham!” 

Ser Charles burst into Haytham’s room without even bothering to knock. The normally calm facade of his had vanished. Instead, there was sweat on his forehead. His hands were trembling. His voice was full of panic.

“The rebels are at the gate now!” he almost shouted.

Sitting by his desk, Haytham put down the quill and scowled at him. “Get me my sword,” he ordered, before swiftly getting up from the chair and reached for his hat from that hook on the wall.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Charles quickly picked up Haytham’s sword, the _Templar_ , from the round table by the wall, and handed to his master.

Haytham took the sword and demanded, “Where is Father?”

“His Majesty is on the wall,” answered Charles. “Please follow me.”

Without further ado, the two of them rushed out of the room.

 

The streets of King’s Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, was filled with terror. People were running from and towards every direction. They were screaming, crying. Some of them were even stomped to death.

When they reached the walls, all Haytham and Charles could see was a massive army marching towards them. Among the army of thousands, the banner of House Washington, thirteen white stars on a blue flag, was clearly visible. Siege towers, mangonels and spitfires were approaching, like monsters slowly approaching their helpless victims.

Haytham’s face immediately went pale. He jogged to his father, King Edward Kenway, with Charles, and asked, “Father, what is happening?”

“Reginald Birch betrayed us, Haytham.” Edward gritted his teeth, as if he was biting the traitor’s neck. His hand was gripping his sword, the _Jackdaw_ , so tight that his knuckles had turned white. “He tricked me into thinking he was bringing Washington here to surrender. He also has your Mother and Sister.”

“He…?”

Haytham couldn’t believe his ears. Lord Reginald, the Master of Secrets, has been his Father’s most trusted advisor, as well as his mentor since he could remember. Everything he’s known was taught by this man. But now he’s betrayed House Kenway and turned to that fool George Washington? And he's also holding his Mother Tessa, and Sister Jenny captive?

“Listen, Haytham,” Edward’s voice snapped him out of his incredulity, “as much as I’d love to cut that fucking traitor’s head off myself, we simply do not have enough men. Washington has the supports from House Adams, House Franklin, House Putnam, House Arnold, and many more. We don’t even stand a chance against them.”

Haytham was speechless. He knew exactly what his father was going to say in the next three seconds, but he did not want to hear it. He refused to accept it. House Kenway could not go down without a fight. As the solely rightful heir to the Iron Throne, he could not just flee and let those rebels washed his beloved capital with the blood of his people.

“No, Father. Please don’t,” he pled.

“It is necessary,” said Edward, sternly, “You are the only chance for House Kenway to reclaim the Iron Throne. You have to stay alive.”

He then turned to the two other young men standing beside him. “Ser John, Maester Benjamin, please escort Prince Haytham to the dock. The _Providence_ has been waiting there.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” The two men, Ser John Pitcairn and Maester Benjamin Church, bowed at the same time.

“You too, Ser Charles,” said Edward, to that teenage boy who only became a knight a month ago, “You must see to it that your Prince will return and drive those bastards out of my throne, no matter how long it will take.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Charles, resolutely, “I will guard my Prince with my life.”

“Father…” Haytham’s lips were trembling. His eyes were clouded with unshed tears.

“Haytham.” Edward put his hands on his son’s shoulders and told him, “Leave Westeros. Cross the Narrow Sea. Return only when you are powerful enough.”

Haytham could not hold back his emotions any longer. He flung his arms around his father, and hugged him tightly, for he knew, too clearly, it would be the last time.

“Stay strong, child,” murmured Edward, “I love you.”

Then he let go of his son, and turned back towards the approaching sea of enemies.

He was once a tall and proud man, walking in the halls of Red Keep with his back straight and head high. Now, all of a sudden, Haytham noticed how old and weary his father looked. And he could not do anything to change that.

“My Lord,” said Ser John, “it is time to go now.”

With one last look at his beloved father, Haytham turned and climbed down the stairs, pretending it was only sweat on his face.

 

When the four of them got to the dock, there was a young knight who looked like he had had too much to drink last night overseeing Haytham’s luggage being brought onto the _Providence_. Upon seeing his Prince, he haphazardly bowed and slurred, “Welcome ‘broad, me Lord. Welcome to the _Providence_.”

Haytham frowned at the man, and asked, “Who are you? And where’s the captain?”

“Ser Thomas Hickey at cha service,” the man answered with a broad grin, “Captain Smythe is movin’ his knick-knacks outta his cabin, me Lord.”

“Preposterous!” said Charles, offended. “How could he not be here to welcome his Prince? We should tie him to the mast as soon as we get up there and teach him a lesson!”

“Easy, Charles,” Haytham patted his shoulder to calm his childhood friend, “We need him to get us safely to Essos. Antagonising him will do us no good.”

“I understand, my Lord.” Charles muttered. A smear of shameful red crept onto his face.

“Do you know where we are heading, Ser Thomas?” asked Haytham.

“Aye me Lord.” Thomas was clearly pleased with himself for knowing that information. “We’re headed to one of them free cities. Pentos I believe. Two of His Majesty’s allies will be expectin’ ya there, me Lord.”

Haytham nodded, and then said to his companions, as calmly as he could manage, “Very well then. Let us be off.”

But as soon as his feet touched the deck of the _Providence_ , a deafening explosion came from the main gate of King’s Landing. He snapped his head towards that direction, but the only thing he could see was the thick, black smoke, extending to the sky.


	2. The Khal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cackled like a maniac when writing the first half of this chapter, but...WHY IS WRITING SMUT SO HARD?!

Haytham put down his quill, and gently blew air towards the newly finished plan of his newest invention. A hidden blade that could be strapped to his wrist, allowing him to kill silently. Though truth be told, the _Templar_ hadn’t tasted blood for far too long.

It had been eight years since the day he had been forced to leave King’s Landing, to leave his beloved Father. Although Pentos turned out to be a rather pleasant place to live in, and Magister Nicolas and Maester William had become his close acquaintances, if not friends, nothing could compare to his home. Not a single day had he not wish he was still in the capital, enjoying his life as Prince. Also, he would’ve probably had a wife and children by now.

There were times when he looked at the sheathed _Templar_ , and wondered perhaps sticking the blade to his own throat would be an easier way out. But he didn’t do it after all. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t fail his father of all people. Couldn’t fail the Kenway name.

So he laid low and bid his time, waiting for a chance to take back what was legitimately his, and to slay the traitor Reginald Birch and his false King.

He just hoped that that chance would come sooner.

A quiet knock on his door made him turn his head. Ser Charles, now no longer a teenager, was standing there with that expectant look on his face every time he laid eyes on his Prince.

Haytham silently sighed.

He knew his best friend had been hopelessly in love with him for years, but he couldn’t reciprocate, because as much as he hated to see Charles doing all sorts of foolish things trying to impress him (like the time he tried to show off his agility and ended up crushing a hole on the rooftop and getting stuck in it), he just didn’t think men interested him. In fact, if not for the several encounters he’d had in King’s Landing, he would have doubted women did either.

“Yes, Charles?” he asked.

“My Lord, the Khal should be here soon. Perhaps you’d like to bath and change now?” said Charles.

Ah yes, the Khal.

Since they needed an army to take back the Iron Throne, after careful deliberation and multiple heated arguments, Haytham and his followers decided to ally themselves with Khal Raton, one of the most powerful Khals in Essos, and allegedly a proficient and feral fighter.

And they were to discuss the matter today.

 

After taking a seawater bath and changing into a new set of silk robes, Haytham started to ponder what exactly would happen during the council. Although they had prepared luxurious gifts for the Dothraki, such as food, garments, weapons and jewellery, he was still unsure whether the Khal would be moved or not. And what good would it do to those horse-riding nomads anyways, even if they eventually managed to train a powerful Dothraki navy (that idea alone made him want to laugh), cross the Narrow Sea and invade Westeros? As far as he could tell, they only had one city in the vast Dothraki Sea, and it was just for trading. It was not like they would willingly settle in King’s Landing and not to cause any trouble.

But, well, Haytham was desperate, and those Dothraki most certainly needed their gifts, considering their lifestyle. So it might work out just fine. At least for now.

A thunder of sounds of hooves snapped Haytham from his thoughts. He found himself staring at a small army of robust, well-trained horsemen as they burst into Magister Nicolas’ garden like a gush of wind. The biggest and tallest of them all was apparently the Khal himself.

Haytham quickly got up from his seat and eyed him carefully, as the horselord dismounted from his horse in fluid movements. He was very strong and muscular, though appeared several years younger than Haytham himself. He had three black vertical lines painted (or tattooed?) on his handsome face, and some lines and triangles on his almost naked torso. His hair was dark and lavish, tied into a braided topknot, which, according to Maester William, was a symbol of his prowess.

Magister Nicolas gave the Khal his warm greeting, when Master William started translating his Common Tongue into the Dothraki language almost immediately. The Khal greeted the Magister in return.

Then he laid his eyes on Haytham.

His gaze was unreadable, almost emotionless. Haytham was unsettled by such a wild gaze, for no one in his life had looked at him like that.

But he remained his poised facade, and said, “Pleasure to meet you, Khal Raton. I am Haytham Kenway, the rightful King of Westeros.”

William rapidly translated his words. Then the Khal said something back, eyes never leaving Haytham.

“The pleasure is all mine, Prince Haytham,” translated William.

After a round of greetings and small talks, everyone sat down accordingly. Magister Nicolas commenced to present the gifts.

Then the Khal raised a hand to stop him and said something that made Maester William’s face turn paper white.

“What is it, William?” Haytham cocked an eyebrow at his friend’s strange reaction and asked impatiently.

“The Khal said…He said…”William gave him a look that was mixed with guilt and pity before continuing, “the only way for him to accept the deal is to have both the gifts and the marriage with Prince Haytham.”

Dead silence followed William’s astonishing words. Like everyone else, Haytham just sat there, completely dumbfounded.

In fact, “William never told me the Dothraki practiced sodomy?” was the only thought in his frozen mind.

“What?!” Charles shrieked indignantly, “This is outrageous! We can’t possibly accept this humiliation!” His hand deftly moved to the sword by his side.

“Wait.” Haytham put his hand on the young man’s arm, then turned to William, “Are you sure, Maester William? That was what he said?”

Before William could reply, the Khal said something that shocked everybody all over again.

He said, “Yes, that was what I said.”

His Common Tongue was slightly accented, but at least they all understood him loud and clear.

Haytham couldn’t help but turn to study the man’s impassive face.

“Is this some kind of joke? Why would he want me to be his…husband? And he can speak perfect Common Tongue but chose to hide it? What in the Seven’s name was that all about?”

His mind was immediately bombarded with a thousand questions, before he came to realize that whether he liked it or not, it was the only chance for him to get his hands on an army before another eight years. And the last thing he wanted was another eight years. If marrying this bloody savage was the only way for him to reclaim his throne, so be it.

“At least he speaks Common Tongue,” thought Haytham, ruefully.

Then he nodded towards the Khal and said, “We accept your terms.”

 

The wedding turned out to be quite the event, something Haytham had not seen in years. Even though Magister Nicolas would throw feast to entertain the Prince and his entourage every now and then, it was nothing compared to this.

Starting from dawn, a gigantic bonfire was set up in the middle of the field. At least a hundred of young Dothraki women with colourful veils were dancing in the wildest fashion. The men were fighting constantly, and to Haytham’s horror, several of them ended up dead in the end, though William had told him before that it was a common practice for Dothraki weddings. When they were not fighting, apparently, they would be fucking the girls right in front of everyone. People were drinking and feasting like there would be no tomorrow, though Haytham and his followers did not seem to be in the mood. The only exception appeared to be Thomas (of course), for he had disappeared with a couple of Dothraki girls just fifteen minutes after the feast began. Charles seemed to sink into some kind of trance, since he had been staring at the bonfire for at least two hours without moving a finger. Then he was dragged away by John, who couldn’t stand his miserable presence any longer. And Haytham had been gulping down mugs and mugs of ale, because he decided the consummation would at least be bearable when he was completely wasted.

By the time the wedding was over, he had to be carried into the tent he and Khal Raton now shared.

Lying in bed like a pool of mud, he couldn’t even raise his head to take a look at his new husband, who walked in in nothing but his birthday suit.

The Khal looked at the Prince and sighed. Then he climbed up to the mattress made of straws and horse pelts. His calloused fingers left a trail of ghostly touched on Haytham’s neck and back, before he ripped his trousers open at the crotch, spat on his fingers, and shoved one up his hole.

Despite all the alcohol he consumed, the sudden pang of burning pain still made Haytham sucked in a sharp breath.

“Hurts,” he slurred.

“Sheesh,” murmured Raton, his other hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, under his silk shirt. “Try to relax.”

Haytham took several deep breaths, before feeling his muscles becoming less tense. It was then Raton leaned over and put his dry, warm lips over Haytham’s.

After freezing for two seconds, Haytham finally decided to open his mouth and let Raton’s tongue slip in. The kiss tasted like nothing but alcohol, and their teeth clacked constantly, but it was a kiss, their first kiss after all. And Haytham decided things could have gone worse.

Until Raton put in his second finger. Then Haytham was all tense again.

Before he could start complaining, Raton’s hand moved towards his chest and twisted one of his nipples. Haytham squealed. Meanwhile, Raton’s fingers started to scissor, and to explore.

Suddenly, Raton touched something inside Haytham and made the latter let out a delicious moan. The Khal kissed the Prince’s neck and touched that sweet spot some more. Haytham’s breath became shallow, his moan pleading.

Then Raton slipped in his third finger, then Haytham started to squeal again. The younger man let out a frustrated grunt and planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth, while his hand moved to his other nipple and his fingers began to stretch.

With Haytham slightly calmed down, Raton withdrew his fingers, spat on his clean hand and smeared his saliva on his erection, before slowly pushing it into Haytham’s entrance.

Haytham’s couldn’t help but gasp. Sweat started to accumulate on his forehead. It was too much to take without proper lubricant or preparation. So he squirmed, hoping that it would force that immense presence out of his body.

But Raton wouldn’t budge. One of his hands gripped Haytham’s wrists so tight that Haytham’s drunken mind was vaguely aware of the possibility of swelling the next day, the other hand started to tug at the older man’s limp cock in a brutal pace. His hip was also moving in circle, trying to let the other man adjust.

When Haytham became more compliant, which was caused by his slowly manifested arousal, Raton let go of his wrists, withdrew his own cock and began to fuck him harshly. Haytham was crying out incoherently on every thrust, some out of pain and some out of pleasure. Raton was growling and snarling like the beast that he was, with his breath hot and heavy on the back of Haytham’s neck.

They slowed down a little to catch their breath, and then the wave of brutality and crudity returned. Haytham’s alcohol-numbed body decided it was enough, and he came with a startled cry. Raton reached his peak after a few more thrust. He sheathed his cock one last time before his body tensed up and a stream of warmth was ejected into Haytham.

The Prince collapsed almost immediately. Though he was less drunk than before, he still found opening his eyes most difficult. He couldn’t even care less the fact that he was lying on his own semen, or the Khal was still inside him before his fell into slumber.

Raton huffed when he withdrew with a wet, slick sound. Some white and red liquid leaked from Haytham’s entrance. The Khal grabbed a rag from a stool by the mattress and haphazardly cleaned himself and Haytham’s backside. Then he threw the rag away, before climbing into bed with his new husband.


	3. The Honeymoon

The next day, Haytham woke up feeling his body had been shattered. He had a splitting headache, due to the amount of ale he’d drunk yesterday. His wrists were bruised. His knees had carpet burns. Worst of all, his arse hurt like someone had set it on fire.

When he started to give a good look around his surrounding, he noticed said someone was long gone. There was a bowl of water on the stool by the mattress. And Haytham drank it with a rueful smile.

After standing up, he winced when he realized his breeches were completely ruined, and there were something flowing down from his hole. But then he found a clean set of clothes on the end of the mattress, neatly folded. He couldn’t help but smile again, this time more exasperated. He gingerly took off his old clothes and changed into the new ones.

The sun was already high up when he left the tent. There was a Dothraki woman in her forties walking towards him, carrying a bowl of stew or some such. He stared at the woman as she approached, wondering why her face looked vaguely familiar.

“Ah Khaleesi,” the woman bowed at him slightly before smiling, “I see you’re already up. Do you want to take your lunch inside the tent or somewhere else?” Her Common Tongue was almost as perfect as Raton’s, though her Dothraki accent was heavier.

“Um, not the tent,” said Haytham, blushing.

Even though he was drunk out of his mind, he could still vaguely remember what had happened last night. For Seven’s sake, his soiled clothes were still in there! He didn’t need anyone to see it all!

“Or you wish to eat in my tent?” suggested the woman. “It’s just over there.” She pointed at another smaller tent a few yards away.

“Sure,” muttered Haytham.

He followed her into the tent, and hissed when sitting on the small stool she offered.

The woman looked at him sympathetically. “Rough night?” she asked, then handed him the stew.

“You could say that.” Haytham mumbled as he took the bowl, before he realized something. “What is your name?” he abruptly asked.

“I’m Ziio, Raton’s Mother.” The woman smiled lovingly.

“Oh.” It was the only response he could manage.

“You know, Khaleesi, there’s a way for you to make your marriage with my son a lot easier,” then she looked at him pointedly, “and less painful.”

“Please, do elaborate,” said Haytham, long forgotten his bowl of horse stew in his hand.

“Raton, like most Dothraki men, does not understand intimacy. But violence, he understands too well,” said Ziio. “You Andals merely adopted violence. But he was born into it, moulded by it. He killed before he was a man, and he’s killed many.”

“Are you suggesting I should fight him with a sword?” Haytham raised his eyebrows.

“Not fight. Challenge,” she said, succinctly. “Make yourself his equal. Force him to respect you, to please you.”

He was still mulling over at her words when she asked, “Were you once a Prince, Khaleesi?”

“I still am.” Haytham immediately shot back, finding Ziio’s use of past tense slightly offensive.

“Then you need to make sure he remembers that.” She smiled.

Then she stood up, bowed to him, before leaving the tent.

That night, when the Khal entered their tent, he was fully clothed.

“Rest,” he said to Haytham, who was looking at him with wary look on his face, “We’ll fuck when you’re recovered.” Then he climbed into bed and closed his eyes without saying another word.

 

The third night after their wedding, the second night after leaving for Vaes Dothrak, Raton entered their tent naked once again.

Haytham, who was only in his breeches, got up from where he had been sitting on the bed, and said, sternly, “I refuse to let you ride me like a whore.”

Upon hearing Haytham’s words, Raton just tilted his eyebrows, amused, but didn’t stop approaching his husband like a lone wolf approaching its prey.

Perhaps it was because that night Haytham was thoroughly drunk and couldn’t move a finger if he wanted to, Raton figured this time would be as easy. But he forgot Haytham was a Kenway, a house that started as pirates on the Iron Islands and eventually conquered the whole of Weseteros.

Therefore, he was more than surprised to see Haytham avoided his advances with ease and elbowed him on the back so hard that he collapsed onto their bed.

“If you want me,” said Haytham, almost impassively, as Raton turning his head and glaring at him with fire, “come and claim me.”

Raton snarled.

He pounced at Haytham in lightning speed, grabbed his shoulders and head-butted him, letting a startled cry from the Prince. But then Haytham deftly dodged his right hook, planted an uppercut on his stomach, and swiftly bounced backwards.

“You’ll regret this.” Raton narrowed his eyes, as they started circling.

“Then it’ll be worth your while now will it not?” Haytham smirked.

Raton charged towards him like a boar. Haytham sidestepped to the right, since it was his stronger side, and prepared to fight him. Yet, to his surprise, a man of Raton’s build could also be as agile as he did. So he was knocked down onto the bed as the Khal beautifully changed course and successfully tackled him.

Raton let out a feral smile with his teeth bearing, and bit on Haytham’s left shoulder heavily.

“Ouch!” Haytham smacked on Raton’s chest. “Damn it, you brute!”

Then he managed all his strength to roll over that oh-so-smug savage, glared at him for a second with less venom than he intended, then bit his mouth.

Raton huffed in pain, but he did open his mouth to welcome his husband’s tongue. He also locked arms around Haytham’s firm waistline then proceeded to grab his arse, earning him a choked yelp from the Prince. He could feel their arousals pressing against each other, separated by only one layer of cloth.

The kiss was angry and brutal, but exhilarating all the same. When they broke the kiss and gasped for air, Raton licked the cut on his lower lip, tasting copper, and teasingly bucked his hip against Haytham’s, making the man moan ever so slightly.

“I see you have been talking to my Mother,” said Raton, with a lopsided smile. “And yes, you are not a slave whore, so you should not be treated like one.”

“Why, thank you very much, husband,” snorted Haytham. “Now, shall we begin?”

He then relaxed and let Raton roll him over and pull his head up for another sloppy kiss, this time much gentler. His hands climbed onto the Khal’s back, feeling his strong muscles and the lines of scars on his sweaty bronze skin.

It was quite nice actually, he thought as he hummed against Raton’s mouth. The brute had a godlike body and the ability to kill and slaughter however he wished. But underneath there was a well-hidden man of kindness.

Suddenly, he realized he had started to like this infuriating bloody savage.

He caught Raton’s lower lip and licked his cut, tasting the blood. Raton pulled himself away and stared at him, dark pupils blown wide with lust. He then proceeded to nip and suck the side of Haytham’s sleek neck, making the Prince gasp. He worried himself at the small hollow above Haytham’s collar bone, leaving a rather large love mark on the pale skin. He worked himself with a sort of brutal efficiency from shoulder blades, to nipples, to stomach, and then eventually he dipped his tongue in his new husband’s navel and swiped, forcing Haytham to let out a long, wanting breath.

Raton untied Haytham’s already wet breeches and released his flagging cock, while tossing the piece of clothing onto the floor. He took hold of it, finger brushing its tip, making Haytham’s breath hitch. Then he spat on his other palm.

“Wait,” husked Haytham, eyes darting towards the small vial on the stool by the bed.

“What is this?” Raton let go of him and reached for the vial, which contained some sort of translucent oily liquid.

“Weapon oil,” answered Haytham. An almost unnoticeable blush crept onto his cheeks.

“Good, so you are prepared.” Raton let out a wicked grin, uncorked the vial and smeared some of the oil on his fingers. “Though I suppose we can ask Mother to make some more suitable herbal oil. With scents, even.”

Haytham couldn’t help but rolled his eyes.

Raton leaned in to kiss him, while slipping his first finger inside the crease of his arse. Haytham gasped, but was then distracted by Raton nipping his lips. When he got used to the digit wiggling and moving inside his rectum, Raton pushed in another one, while licking and sucking his earlobe. Haytham frowned at the discomfort at first, his body tensed, but eventually relaxed and sighed. So Raton slipped in the last one.

And it burnt.

Haytham hissed in pain. Raton started tugging his cock with his other hand, and murmured something in Dothraki in his low and throaty voice. Haytham didn’t know what he was saying, but he could guess. And eventually, his body relaxed and his breathing evened out.

Raton let his fingers stayed in a little longer before he withdrew and smeared more oil on his own cock. Then, to his surprise, Haytham grabbed him and switched their position.

“Tonight I would look upon you face,” whispered Haytham, in accented Dothraki.

Raton’s eyes widened, and he was excited. His hands grabbed Haytham’s firm arse, while Haytham lined his cock with his entrance, and slowly sat down.

They both gasped, those Haytham’s was more in pain, whereas Raton’s was more in excitement.

The Khal stroke Haytham’s waist and arse soothingly, and saw him gradually loosened up. It dawned on him that Haytham’s face was really beautiful. Not the kind of beauty one expected to find on a woman, but that of strength, pride and charm on a fighter of royal lineage.

So he sat up, held the Prince in his arms, and started rocking his hip. Haytham yelped. But he soon found his own rhythm and rode the Khal like he was riding a horse.

They moaned. They cried. They snarled. Their breaths hot on each other. Their eyes drawn to each other. It was as if they became one, one body, one mind, and one soul. And they kept rocking, and rocking, and rocking.

Eventually, Raton let out an animalistic growl. His hip snapped up, and his seeds were spilled inside Haytham.

Haytham was watching him with the little sanity he had left, and his mind was blown. Raton looked content, and a thousand kinds of gorgeous.

Then his calloused hand took Haytham’s hard cock and started pumping it rapidly. It wasn’t long until Haytham let out a particularly loud whine and came, white fluid covering Raton’s hand.

Haytham rolled over and lay down beside him, panting, and lost.

It wasn’t until several minutes later they regained part of their strength, cleaned out the mess, and cuddled together. Haytham was lying on Raton’s muscular arm, while the Dothraki lazily drawing circles on the Prince’s well-defined stomach.

Haytham turned his head and planted a kiss on Raton’s shoulder blade. He said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” replied the Khal, whose eyes looked at Haytham curiously.

“Why did you want to marry me in the first place?”

Raton chuckled. “Because I am attracted to men like you, arrogant, proud, and good-looking,” he said.

“Enough to want to marry me?” Haytham cocked his eyebrows and turned to look at the man.

“Well, you are – what is the word – exotic.” Raton smirked, while Haytham rolled his eyes. “How often do you think I get to meet with an Andal Prince who needs my help so desperately that he is willing to go any length?”

“Bloody savage,” Haytham muttered, without any menace.

The Khal laughed. “Any other questions?”

“How do you learn to speak Common Tongue so well?”

“Achilles taught me,” explained Raton, with a slight smile on his face. “He was originally one of the slaves, you see. But then I found out he knew a lot, and he spoke your language, so he became my mentor. Maybe you have already met him. He’s the cantankerous old man with a cane.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen him,” recalled Haytham. “He’s the old Sandy Dornishman in a dark robe. But how did he end up here?”

A sudden hint of sadness appeared in Raton’s eyes. “He said it was because his wife and son had been taken by one of the slavers. He chased their trail all the way here, but he still has not found them yet.” He paused, as if to think of something else to say, and then continued, “He likes to call me Connor. It was the name of his son. He was only six years old when he last saw him.”

“But now he has you, has he not?” said Haytham, trying to cheer him up a little. “You are like his son.”

Raton smiled slightly. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Connor…I like the name.” Haytham looked at Raton, and asked, “Can I call you Connor as well?”

“Yes, you most certainly can,” Raton, or rather, Connor planted a kiss on his forehead, “Haytham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone noticed how many movie references there are in the chapter? :)


	4. The Betrayal

After their two month’s stay in Vaes Dothrak, where Haytham was foretold by the _dosh khaleen_ to be “The Stallion Who Mounts the World,” the _khalasar_ returned to Pentos, and basically settled near the free city.

They met an old sailor called Robert Faulkner in the city, who was once the first mate of a dromond called the _Aquila_ that was now broken on the shoal of Pentos. In exchange for him to train the Dothraki to sail, Haytham agreed to repair the ship, just so he could live his life on the sea again. Though Haytham himself was a quick learner in terms of sailing, to their greater surprise, Connor was proved to be an even more diligent and talented pupil. As a result, he was the new captain of the _Aquila_ , while Haytham would captain the _Randolph_ , a gift from Magister Nicolas as a sign of loyalty.

During the last few months, Haytham had made himself very busy. His Dothraki had gotten better and better. He had officially met Achilles and had been improving his fighting skills under the old man’s strict teaching. He had to hidden blades crafted by a local smith, and it worked beautifully. He had been sparring and strategizing with his followers, specifically Charles most of the time. He had commissioned Benjamin to oversee the production of wildfire, no matter how little the scale was, according the formula he had been carrying with him. He had even learnt a thing or two about herbs from Ziio.

He knew he would eventually return to Westeros, avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne. And he had to make sure he was well-prepared for it. Therefore, he took every opportunity to learn, because one could never know what he had learnt might come to use and even save one’s life someday.

Occasionally, the Dothraki would go on a raid at the nearby villages. But mostly of the time they were led by Connor’s most trusted bloodrider Kanen, who was decided to stay in Essos and become the new Khal once Connor crossed the Narrow Sea.

Thing were going smoothly according to plan, with only one setback: their funds had slowly drained. When Haytham and his followers escaped King’s Landing, they didn’t bring a lot of gold with them, since most of the Kenway’s treasure was deep inside the Red Keep. And the Dothraki was not a particularly wealthy people. Although they had started selling slaves for gold, it was still far from enough.

 

“We can still afford to build two more longships.” Connor leaned towards the small round table, fingers toying a small piece of straw, clearly irritated. “But that would be it.”

“Be at peace, Connor.” Haytham put his hand on his husband’s arm, and rubbed soothingly. “With wildfire, we may not need that many ships to take down the Mad King’s fleet.”

“I don’t trust that…thing.” Connor wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Besides, how are we to know that the Mad King does not have the access to wildfire like we do?”

“My Father eliminated the Alchemist’s Guild as soon as he became king,” said Haytham, dryly. “I have the only copy of the formula that is now in Maester Benjamin’s hand. No need to worry, my Love.”

“Eliminated?” asked Connor, eyebrows tilted.

“Killed. Slaughtered. Massacred. It was the only thing that I did not agree with him.” Haytham lowered his head for a second to regain his composure, then continued, “He said it was too dangerous.”

“I have to agree with your Father on that, Haytham,” sighed Connor.

A young Dothraki girl entered their tent, with their lunch on a wooden tray. She laid out the bowls and plates for them on the table, then quietly left them be.

Connor grabbed the roasted lamb ribs and started gnawing. Haytham let out a slight smile at the Khal’s table manner, before picking up the rabbit stew and taking a drag.

“Hmm.” Haytham eyed the bowl carefully, “What did they put in the stew? It tastes different today.” Then he took another sip.

“Really?” Connor became curious. He put down the rib and took up the other bowl –

“No, don’t drink that!” exclaimed Haytham, eyes widened and face whitened. He grabbed the wooden bowl from Connor’s hand and dropped both on the ground. “It’s poison!”

“WHAT?” shouted Connor, angered and worried.

Then he watched in horror as the Prince collapsed and lost consciousness.

 

Haytham felt his consciousness had been drifting in and out of some kind of grey mist. He could hear voices. He could saw light. However, he couldn’t open his eyes or lift his fingers or open his mouth to shout, to demand what was going on.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. But suddenly, he could taste something bitter and foul in his mouth, something that curiously smelled like horse dung. So he reflexively gagged. His throat contracted, trying to throw the foreign, unpleasant substance out of his body.

And he got up and heaved, vomiting his guts out. Some type of brown watery stuff slapped onto the floor.

“Thank the Heavens!” The first thing he heard was Connor’s joyful exclamation. “You are back!”

Still feeling hazed and weak, Haytham realized he had been lying on Connor’s laps. He wished he could enjoy this rare offer. However, his shirt was completely damp by cold sweat. His heart was racing. His oesophagus was burning. His lips were chapped.

“What -” he almost whispered, “What did you give me?”

“Water mixed with horse shit and straw,” came Achilles’ tired voice.

Haytham turned his head, just to see the old man dropping a wooden bowl into a bucket full of muddy water. And if he didn’t know the man well, he would have been fooled by his impassive expression.

“Um, thanks, Achilles,” he said eloquently.

“No need to thank me.” Achilles wiped his hands on a dirty rag nonchalantly. “Not every day can I get the opportunity to feed you shit water.”

Before Haytham could reply, Ziio lifted the curtain and walked into the tent. Upon seeing him, she let out a small smile.

“Glad to see you return to the world of living, Khaleesi,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” Haytham gave her a weak smile.

Ziio then turned to Connor, and said, “It was apple seeds. Anyone with a minimal knowledge of poisons could do that.”

The Khal gritted his teeth and swore some profanities in Dothraki, and then gently pushed aside the strings of sweaty hair stuck on Haytham’s face.

“Rest, my Love,” he murmured. “We will deal with the traitor later.”

 

Sleep came by eventually, but Haytham was rudely waken when the sky was still dark.

Charles and Kanen both barged in their tent, their faces contorted with rage.

“My Lords,” said Charles breathlessly.

All he got was a snarl of protest from Connor.

“What is it, Charles?” Haytham sat up, scrubbing his face with his palms.

“Church is gone,” said the young knight, gravely.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Connor stood up, and demanded.

“His horse is not there. And there is a trail of hoof prints towards the north,” reported Kanen, equally angered. “We tried to follow the trail, but it was joined by many. So we have to return to bring reinforcement.”

“Treacherous scum!” Connor swore, and started to put on his boots, “Wake the other bloodriders Kanen. I will skin this trai – What do you think you are doing, Haytham?” He scowled at the Prince, who was already fastening his hidden blades.

“I am coming,” said Haytham, sternly, before finishing the last buckle. “Church works for me. And I want an answer.”

“My Lord!” protested Charles, “But you just woke up -”

“Silence!” Haytham shot him a warning look, and strapped his sword to his belt.

“Let us be off, gentlemen. The enemies won’t wait.”

 

They followed the single trail of hoof prints before it was joined by at least another dozen. They rode tirelessly to the north, and came across a Westerosi slavers’ camp just after sunrise.

Without stopping for discussing strategy, the Dothraki spurred their horses and charged directly towards the camp. Haytham and Charles exchanged an exasperated look, and then followed suit.

It was sheer chaos inside the camp. There were at least 20 slavers and a few slaves, all awaken by the Dothraki’s battle cry and scrambling around. Some of them managed to draw weapons and mount horses, but half of them were crushed by the hooves of Dothraki stallions or slaughtered under Dothraki blades.

During this ruckus, Haytham was separated from his allies. And he was already feeling exhausted from the ride. Still, he sat on his horseback and looked, scanning the camp for a glimpse of Benjamin Church.

It was then he caught sight of Connor slipping into the only wooden cabin inside the camp.

He cursed under his breath, and rode towards the cabin. Just as he was dismounting his horse, a slaver charged towards him, sword ready to strike. He drawn out the _Templar_ , and parried the man with as much grace as he had left. The man lost his balance and stumbled onto the ground. Before he could get up, Haytham sunk his blade into his stomach, and dragged. The man died with his intestines hanging outside of his body.

Without even bothering to wipe the blood of his blade, Haytham rushed into the cabin, just in time to see Connor beating the Maester into a bloody pulp.

“Poisoning your own Prince…” A punch to the nose bridge with a loud “crack”. “You pathetic coward…” A punch to the mouth. Two teeth fell off. “How could you…” A punch to the jaw. “After all he did for you…” A punch to the right eye that blackened almost instantaneously. “You despicable insect…” Another punch to the jaw.

“Enough,” said Haytham, with a sigh. “We came here for a reason.”

“Different reasons, it seems.” Connor gritted his teeth, and finished off with a heavy blow to the cheek.

Haytham looked down on Church, eyes filled with sadness.

“Why?” he asked.

“My loyalty lied with King George,” said Church, before stopped to cough up some blood. “His Majesty ordered your elimination. I merely followed his orders.”

“And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay.”

Then Haytham triggered his hidden blade, and slid it into Church’s throat. The traitor died immediately.

The Prince withdrew the contraption, and started going through the dead man’s jacket.

“Of course he would carry the formula with him,” he said, looking at the piece of parchment he found at the breast pocket, and straightened himself.

“Let’s get out of this damned place,” said Connor, wiping his hands with a piece of discarded clothing. He was much calmer now that the traitor was dead.

Outside, the battle had already ended. Bodies of slavers lying in pools of blood. And only one bloodrider suffered a slice to the arm.

“Khal! Khaleesi!” Kanen called from one of the larger tents. “There is something you should see!”

They followed Kanen into the tent. There was a rather large wooden chest at the corner. Kanen opened it with excitement.

There were countless of shimmering golden coins in the chest, along with some other golden pieces of jewellery. No doubt it was where the slavers put their money.

“Well,” Haytham sucked in a breath, “these are our ships here.”


End file.
